Edema Blood
by Cailin na hEireann
Summary: Music was one of the things that had made Kvothe. All through those years of legendary adventures and making history, music had been his shadow, his guide.  Bast should have known.


**Here we go again. I honestly have no idea where this story came from, and thanks to it, I am probably going to fail my maths test tomorrow, thanks to my doing absolutely no studying. But oh well, I hope someone enjoys this anyway.**

**Disclaimer: Patrick Rothfuss is the genius who owns this world. I'm only playing in his sandbox.**

Bast was woken by the cool, clean light of dawn streaming through his open window. It flooded into the room, liquid sunlight and warmth, and he instinctively took a deep lungful of it, relishing the feeling of the air fusing into his blood. He released it again reluctantly, blearily running his hands through his hair and throwing on a shirt. He kept a sensitive ear trained on what noises there were: the drip of morning dew on the leaves outside his window, the hush of gentle breathing in the room next to his. Chronicle was still asleep then.

He listened harder, past the distant clip of horseshoes on the main street, the scattered hum of voices and laughing, the swelling sound of the little town stretching, shaking itself awake, eyes opening to another day of quiet, slow living.

Where was reshi?

Usually, Bast would wake up and hear the clatter of his master setting up the inn below. He would listen to Kvothe reorganizing the glasses, or lighting the fire. Inevitably, Bast would feel the by now familiar twinge of anxiety; Kvothe the Bloodless was never meant to be a small-town innkeeper, was never meant to live this kind of life. He was drowning in the uninterrupted mundane emptiness of it, and not for the first time, Bast was unable to do anything but watch and mourn.

Today, when he listened, he couldn't hear him.

Swallowing down an irrational surge of unease, Bast opened his door and silently slipped outside, padding down the stairs. The inn was in its usual state of meticulous neatness, the bottles lined up tidily, the dark wooden floorboards polished to an almost unnatural shine. Bast's eyes swept over it all, searching for the tell-tale shimmer of deep crimson, or the low baritone of Kvothe's deep voice. Sometimes, if Bast got up early enough in the mornings, he could catch his master singing to himself in the back, and understand why people used to travel miles to listen to him.

But Reshi wasn't here either.

Growling in the back of his throat, Bast shoved a stool out of his way and marched towards the door, throwing it open angrily. He hated when his master did this, leaving without a word to his student, sometimes for hours on end. It was enough to set Bast's nerves alight.

The rush of morning air swept over him, running through his hair and filling the room behind him with the sweet scent of new grass and cider.

He lifted his head, gaze flickering over the people he could see moving near the other end of town, trying to spot Kvothe. He wasn't very much surprised when he couldn't find him. After all, Reshi didn't like wandering around with the townsfolk at the best of times; what reason could he possibly have to go down there this early?

'Bast.'

Startled, the dark young man stiffened, head spinning around. There he was, perched on the roof of the inn, arms wrapped around his knees. The wind was making Kvothe's wild mop of hair dance, like a bloody, fiery halo around his head. He smirked at Bast's expression, waving in a decidedly annoying manner at his student. At that moment, he looked no older than Bast himself.

Scowling, Bast clambered up to join him, sitting down heavily next to his master.

'What the hell, Reshi?'

Kvothe chuckled quietly. 'Good morning to you too, Bast.'

Still frowning, Bast followed the red-haired man's gaze. Kvothe was watching the goings-on at the other end of town. There was a flurry of movement down there, more people than usual, Bast thought. He sharpened his eyes, focusing on the scene.

Flashes of colour caught his attention every few seconds, but they were gone before he could determine what they were. He could hear the high pitched shrieking of children and the deeper voices of adults as they laughed. Bast thought he could detect the faint sound of someone tuning an instrument.

His brow furrowed.

'What's going on, Reshi?'

When no answer was forthcoming, he turned to look at his master, surprised to see a slight smile twisting his lips. His green eyes were as dark as pond water.

'Why don't you go see for yourself, Bast?'

Confused, Bast did as he was told, sliding off the roof and landing gracefully on his feet, like a cat. He looked back up at Kvothe uncertainly, but his master wasn't even looking at him. He was concentrating on climbing down himself without breaking his neck.

Bast rolled his eyes and started towards the town, hands in his pockets. The air was becoming chilly quickly, the sharp teeth of autumn biting at his arms and fingers and legs like a starving dog. He shivered, pressing his chin down to his chest to hide his neck.

'Young master Bast!'

It was old Cob, jogging past with his arms full of timber. He was wearing the grin of a madman, eyes bright and laughing.

'What's happening, Cob? Anything I'd be interested in?'

'You got some free time, boy? Your master's awful kind to you. I remember back when I was 'prenticed….'

Inwardly raising his eyes to heaven, Bast laughing quickly, cutting Cob off before he could launch into the story properly.

'Actually, he sent me down here to see what all the commotion's about. He'll probably be up himself in a minute.'

Cob nodded thoughtfully, eyes glazed over for a second, and then he smiled, jerking his head behind him.

'Edema Ruh in town. Haven't seen them around these parts in years, since I was a boy meself. They're in a party mood, and the whole town's setting up for a long night!'

Someone called Cob's name impatiently, and he quickly saluted Bast and trotted off, immediately swallowed by the growing crowd.

Bast took a hasty step back as a gaggle of screaming children charged past him, howling and throwing things at each other. Two of them were dressed in red and gold trouper uniforms, carrying tiny instruments strapped to their backs carefully.

Near the town hall, laughter erupted like a burst of song. Another trouper, a young teenager with wild blonde hair and wilder eyes, produced a fiddle out of nowhere and ripped into a tearing frenzy of a tune, grinning at everyone who began to clap along.

Behind him, troupers were setting up campfires and chatting with the locals, showing the children tricks and cleaning their instruments. They looked as if they had completely made themselves at home within a matter of minutes, and the villagers were welcoming them with open arms and excited smiles.

Kvothe appeared beside Bast's shoulder, gazing fondly at the revelry. His eyes were a soft, sad green.

'Your kind of scene, hmmm, Bast?'

Unsure of what to say, Bast just nodded. He looked back at the troupers, eyes instantly locking on the slight figure of a young woman about his age. She winked lazily at him, mouthing something that made Bast's eyes widen. Were Edema women always this forward?

If so, he decided, he rather liked it.

Kvothe laughed quietly, gently pushing his student towards her.

'Go on, Bast. Enjoy yourself. I'm going to go see if Devan wants to wake up sometime today.'

He turned to walk back to the inn. Instantly feeling guilty, Bast put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

'Reshi? Are you not going to stay too?'

For a moment, Kvothe looked at him, eyebrows quirked. And then he smiled a blazingly unfamiliar smile, sharp and crooked and playfully dangerous.

'I never said I wasn't.'

He turned away and disappeared into the crowd.

Bast had thought he was an expert on parties. He was an experienced veteran of sorts, having been attending celebrations and balls and feasts long before these people were even born. He knew the difference between a good party and a bad one, and had been fairly certain the Fae, at least in this, were unmatched.

All of his so called certainties were blown out the window within minutes of the Ruh really getting started.

He found himself pleasantly lost in the sea of festivities before he was even properly drunk. Snatches of laughter and music and stories danced through his head, and there were drinks and women and songs filling every second of the night. There was never a lapse, never a moment where someone went still and checked the time, or worried about their livestock, or stopped long enough to even register how exhausted they were.

The Edema were graceful, playful, and thrumming with energy. They played their fiddles and lyres and lutes until their fingers were bleeding and sore, but they didn't pause for a minute. Sometime during the night, one of the troupers produced an unfamiliar drink that, when set alight, was drunk quickly before it could do serious damage to the mouth, leaving a burning, delicious trail of heat down their throats.

A couple of the troupers graciously volunteered their time to entertaining the children. They put on puppet shows, fantastic things that were so wondrously engaging and colourful that often, they attracted the attention of the inebriated adults as much as the young ones.

Later on, without any prompting, everyone squeezed around the main campfire like moths drawn to light. The night was dark and deep and velvet around them.

The leader of the troupe, a tall, kindly man, took a seat where everyone could see him. Carefully, slowly, he took his lute into his arms and tuned it patiently, waiting for everyone to gather. When he was holding everyone's undivided attention, he smiled and began to speak.

'Now. Having fun, are we?'

There was drunken hooting and shouting for a minute or two, before the crowd was reigned under control again with a raised hand and a smirk.

'Good, good. That's what I wanted to hear.'

He plucked a few chords, and motioned for the young women Bast had been cavorting with earlier to come forward. She grinned and went to stand beside him.

'And now, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to play one of my personal favourites. I have loved it since I was a boy, and I'm sure most of you have heard it. It was written many, many years ago by one of the most famous Edema Ruh of all time, Illien. It is a duet, so hopefully one of you will consent to join Sill here.'

He grinned, and, quietly, began to play.

His fingers blurred on the strings, dancing up and down like flames in the breeze. The song he wove into the cool night air was light as starlight, as subtly powerful as distant thunder. Everyone was silent, breathing it in like oxygen.

Sill began to sing, her voice sweet and sad. The song was immediately familiar to Bast, though he couldn't quite remember the name of it. He could see the recognition sparking in the townsfolk's eyes.

Sill sang on, watching the crowd with amused eyes. Her voice faded out as she waited for someone to take up the male part.

The silence lasted for a full half minute, in which time the crowd of people looked around at each other with encouraging eyes and nudges, each afraid to try it themselves. Uncertainly, Bast was about to resign himself and begin singing when someone beat him to it.

And not just someone.

_Kvothe._

His voice was achingly familiar, and yet so alien at the same time. Bast was used to occasionally, if he was lucky, catching the last strains of a tune sung quietly under his master's breath in the morning. Reshi very rarely sang in other people's company.

And yet, here he was, his deep voice low and dark and tinged with quiet sadness. He wasn't just singing his part, he was telling the sweet, old song Illien had written so long ago. His voice was winter, spring and summer all at once, night and day and everything in between. The Fae would have wept. Felurian would have sighed.

Bast realized, through the blur of emotion and music, that of all the things he could have done to push his reshi back to himself, back to the man he was, this was the most effective. Getting him to tell his story to Chronicler, hiring thugs to goad him into action, all of that, would have done this eventually. Eventually, Kote the innkeeper would have remembered, and turned back to Kvothe.

But this, this was so much easier. Music was one of the things that had made Kvothe. All through those years of legendary adventures and making history, music had been his shadow.

He should have known.

Bast listened to his master and mentor singing, and could almost hear the innkeeper melting away into Kvothe the Bloodless.

The song ended, and for a full two minutes, nobody said a word. Even the Edema, so accustomed to beautiful singing, stayed silent, eyes searching out the mystery person frantically.

Suddenly, someone began to clap, and then people leapt to their feet, roaring and applauding, pushing Kvothe forward to the front. He blushed boyishly, smiling a little at the attention. He took a hasty bow, waving nervously, and tried to disappear again.

Thankfully, the crowd was having none of it. They blocked his escape route, laughing and clapping him on the back.

The lead trouper set down his lute and bounded forward to shake Kvothe's hand, and then said loudly enough for everyone to hear, 'I know one of my own when I hear them. You're one of us, aren't you?'

Kvothe nodded weakly, still smiling almost unconsciously. The townsfolk looked surprised for a minute, and then laughed, some of them exclaiming that they had known it all along.

After that, Kvothe was dragged reluctantly into the limelight, enthusiastically greeted by every Edema there. Bast looked on in amazement, feeling the beginnings of something.

_Finally. He's back._

**_Review, please? I'm not going to pressure you into it, but it would seriously make my day if I at least got one or two!_**


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